


It's Planting Seeds In A Garden You Never Get To See

by lafgayette



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, alex is a dramatic fool who wants to fight the entire universe, everyone is queer!! and alive!! beautiful!!!, flower shop au!!, jefferson is his usual terrible self, john is an activist and florist who loves dogs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-07-19 00:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7337632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafgayette/pseuds/lafgayette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I need flowers,” Alex thought his heart was about to start leaking out of his ass as Probably An Angel giggled. He covered his mouth with his hand, and Alex was again mesmerized by the freckles that artfully splattered his soft brown skin, surely put on this Earth solely to cause Alex heart pains. </p><p>“I guessed as much,” Probably An Angel joked, gesturing to the plethora of flowers surrounding them, “Being a flower shop and all.” </p><p>flower shop au wherein alex has tiny fists but big ideas, most of which come to include john. adventures, fluff, angst and symbolic flowers ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Daffodils

“Sir, with all due respect, it _is_ Jefferson we’re talking about – “

“Are you insinuating Thomas deserved to be set on fire, Hamilton?” Washington interrupted, eyebrows raised authoritatively.

Alex hastily backtracked, eager to rid Washington of his disappointed father tone. “No, sir! Of course not! If I would _object_ to him being set alight is a different matter, but beside the point, since I wouldn’t ever _intend_ to do it. What I’m trying to say is, please don’t fire me.”

“You set Thomas Jefferson on fire,” Alex smiled, “Now is not the time to laugh about unintended puns, Hamilton. You. Set. Thomas. Jefferson. On. Fire.” Washington enunciated each word, unsuccessfully attempting to convey the gravity of the situation.

“Accidentally! I accidentally set Jefferson on fire! Sir, I’m sorry, I’ll do whatever it takes to -“ Alex gesticulated wildly, eyes beseeching.

“Stop rambling, Hamilton. You’ll apologize to Thomas,” Alex opened his mouth to interrupt, an objection on his lips. Washington held up a hand, preemptively halting the six-hour speech Alex would have launched into arguing how Jefferson didn’t deserve to lick his foot skin, let alone deserve an apology. Begrudgingly, Alex shut mouth, deciding instead to digress the issue through a series of passive aggressive tweets. “And you won’t fight him again. In any official space, be it the office or on twitter. I mean it, son.” Alex cursed the intern who taught Washington about social media. He inwardly sighed, thinking of how all his politically slanderous memes were to be monitored by Washington. He made a mental note to hold a funeral for the days of demonstrating the incredible resemblance Jefferson held to Pepe the frog.

“Listen, Hamilton,” Washington’s stern countenance was softened by his fond smile, “I value you as a member of this campaign. However, Jefferson’s job is imperative and I’m tired of my two best employees playing Montague and Capulet.”

“Yes, sir,” Alex sighed, knowing better than to argue as the smell of slightly charred fabric still clung to the air, “I’m totally Montague, though. Capulet’s suck ass,” He muttered, earning a small chuckle from Washington. 

“Go. Apologise. Don’t let your rivalry end in the same way as the analogy’s does.” Washington addressed him, gently shooing him from the room.

“Don’t worry, sir. I’d rather eat my own ass than kiss the poison from Jefferson’s crusty lips. Surely you pay him enough for him to buy some chapstick, honestly.”

“Go!” Washington ordered, his small smile turned into a grin that broke his stern facade entirely. Alex grinned brightly, mind already racing to figure out how to give the most insincerest of apologies. He mock saluted Washington, leaving the office quickly. 

Alex passed the offices of his fellow employees, all working in the hopes of having Washington elected mayor of New York. His feet carried him to the bus stop across from the campaign building easily, the paths familiarity allowed him to concentrate on other matters. His mind tumbled through the possibilities as to how he could avoid getting fired yet further roast Jefferson with a witty apology. Ha, roast. Alex giggled to himself, earning a concerned look from an intern.

“Well, well, well,” Alex flinched, the voice immediately grating upon his nerves. He turned to see the obnoxious grin of Jefferson, still wearing the blindingly ugly purple coat, albeit now slightly charred. Alex only wished the entire thing had been incinerated. Preferably along with the person wearing it. 

“Washington informed me you have an apology to give, Snape.” Thomas drawled, using his height to smirk condescendingly down at Alex.

“I had greasy hair _one time_ you jizz inhaling gerbil fucker –“ Alex clenched his fists, desperately resisting the urge to connect one with the chin Jefferson arrogantly raised. It wasn’t Alex’s fault Jefferson had such a punchable face. He tried to use the deep breaths exercise Hercules had taught him, and after ten seconds of in-through-the-nose-out-through-the-mouth, Alex managed to speak to Jefferson without being at risk of committing homicide.

Alex spoke calmly, his voice’s moderate tone contradicted by the murder in his eyes, “Why are you even here, Jefferson? I don’t recall saying your name three times in front of a mirror at midnight. Be gone, foul demon!” Alex flourished his hands dramatically. He internally cringed, aware he lacked wit, but sleep deprivation had effects that no amount of caffeine could fix. 

“Now, now. What kind of an apology was that? Come on, Hamilton. I expect you begging on your knees,” Jefferson laughed, a fake chuckle that Alex swore he practiced in front of a mirror, of which sent a spike of aggravation through Alex’s thin frame. 

“The only reason I’d be on my knees in front of you is in the event that I chop your dick off to cook and then feed to the local pigeons. You’ll get your fucking apology,” He spat, “Besides, shouldn’t you be busy starting a fire for the camp you’ve set up inside Washington’s ass?”

Alex stalked away, exiting the building with Jefferson’s carols echoing behind him, “You better! Daddy’s callin’!” 

Situated on the crowded bus, Alex considered how he could get away with murdering Jefferson. Where would he hide the body? Cannibalism, whilst a dramatic option, was possible but – 

His phone violently buzzed and ruptured his daydreaming, leaving Jefferson unfortunately alive and Alex unsatisfied. He extracted it from his tight jeans with difficulty, apologizing profusely to the elderly woman he elbowed in doing so.

**washingdad: Did you seriously threaten to feed Jefferson’s dicks to pigeons, Hamilton?**

**mynameisaham: the local pigeons, sir**

**mynameisaham: i’m always looking out for the community**

**washingdad: Did you also call him, and I quote, a 'jizz inhaling gerbil fucker'?**

**mynameisaham: am i being oppressed for utilizing my right to free speech rn??? is that what's happening???? bc im pretty sure thats ILLEGAL sir**

**washingdad: Hamilton.**

**mynameisaham: ugh fine i’m on my way to buy flowers now chill sir**

**washingdad sent a voice message**

**mynameisaham: did you really just send me a voice message of you sighing in disappointment sir?**

**washingdad: Whenever you want to threaten Jefferson and/or his genitalia listen to that recording and remember that your words have consequences.**

Alex’s mouth fell agape, somewhat amazed that the notoriously inept with technology Washington had managed to utilize voice messaging. He thought of the newly found disciplinary measures it enabled, and pondered the merits of burning down Washington’s office. The bright sign of Lafayette’s Flowers blurred past, and Alex hastily shoved the old iPhone back into his jeans and bounded off the bus. 

Alex pulled the sleeves of his sweater over his hands, nestling into the thick wool as the biting wind nipped his face. He approached the store, the cheerful sign a welcoming beacon, and entered the warm shop. The fluorescent lights inside gently illuminated the flowers, the store’s space brimming with bouquets and bunches of beautifully arranged flora. Alex breathed in deeply, the sweet aroma reminding him of warm summers. The store was comforting, as the winds howled outside and Jefferson sat at his desk, probably eating some shit macaroni and cheese. _Condescendingly_ eating some shit macaroni and cheese, Alex reminded himself. How the man did everything with an air of ostentatious assholery was an impressive feat. Jefferson would win gold at the Asshole Olympics.

Alex brightened at the idea of Asshole Olympics, making a mental note to buy Jefferson a medal and implement some of his craft skills. An unseen French voice snapped Alex out of his thoughts, “Oi! Il est un client! Faites votre travail, petite merde!”

A man, coeval to Alex, emerged from a hidden room. As he laughed, head thrown back and eyes crinkled, Alex felt his heart seize. He sent a silent thank you to God, Allah, Buddha, the void and the possible goose-overlord for gracing the Earth with what was surely an angel.

“Va te faire enculer! Looking at pictures of golden retrievers isn’t your job, you hypocrite!” Alex breathed out a soft _holy fuck_. The man’s voice had to be illegal in thirteen states. As Alex began to compose sonnets about his freckles, Probably An Angel grinned at him.

“How can I help, man?”

Alex snapped out of his revere, vowing to find a rhyme for ‘bludgeon me to death with your beautiful elbows’. He bounced on the tip of his toes, a habit that accompanied his excitement, and returned Probably An Angel’s grin. 

“I need flowers,” Alex thought his heart was about to start leaking out of his ass as Probably An Angel giggled. He covered his mouth with his hand, and Alex was again mesmerized by the freckles that artfully splattered his soft brown skin, surely put on this Earth solely to cause Alex heart pains. 

“I guessed as much,” Probably An Angel joked, gesturing to the plethora of flowers surrounding them, “Being a flower shop and all.” 

“Right!” Alex laughed, an unfamiliar contentment replacing his usual buzz of anticipatory energy, “I need flowers that mean I’m sorry I set you on fire,” As Probably An Angel quirked a brow, Alex rushed to elaborate, “Accidentally! Accidentally set you on fire!” 

“That is,” The man’s earth shattering grin only widened, “Oddly specific.”

“Well, I’m not saying he deserved to be set on fire, but he kind of actually did,” Alex all but gushed, eager to keep the amused smile on the man’s face. He had known the man for a staggering total of two minutes, yet was already prepared to commit homicide if it meant getting to bask in the glow of that grin.

“Ah, so you accidentally set this douchebag on fire, and now you have to apologize?” Probably An Angel asked, and Alex grinned elatedly at him as though the sun were shining out of his ass. Which, if Alex were being honest, wouldn’t surprise him if it did.

“Precisely! If anything I did him a favor, accidentally burning that fucking purple monstrosity of a jacket that he wears and probably jerks off into,” Alex paused to take a breath, “He is the epitome of douchebaggery. The king of douchebags. I’m getting him flowers so I don’t get fired, but I also want to make the apology as passive aggressive as possible.” He stopped talking to worriedly chew on his bottom lip. He thought of the countless times he had been told to shut up, and his brows furrowed as he worried that he had annoyed Probably An Angel. In the seconds it took for the man to respond, Alex had already composed a formal apology for his behavior and had made a ten piece plan to drive off a cliff.

His worries and untimely death plan were swept away as Probably An Angel laughed, eyes crinkling so sweetly that Alex felt his legs go weak. He shook his head, a pointless attempt to attain a semblance of sanity, well aware that the man before him has sent him plunging headfirst into a shit storm of infatuation. 

“Brilliant!” Probably An Angel exclaimed, excitedly gathering an array of different flowers to sort into a bouquet. “Purple hyacinth, an apologetic flower for this twat. Basil, to symbolize hate,” Probably An Angel winked at Alex, body brushing against his arm and igniting a soft flicker of sparks under Alex's skin as he leaned over to grab a bright bunch of flowers, “And orange lilies! To really emphasize that hatred. Homeboy’s gonna get the most passive aggressively flower coded message of all time.” He adjusted the newly assembled bouquet, proudly presenting it to Alex. 

“It’s perfect! Thank you, Probably An –“ Alex hurriedly cut himself off, “Probably a miracle! A miracle is what you just did! Those flowers are a miracle!” Alex desperately tried to pass off the slip calmly, paying for the flowers, “And your name is?” He tried for casual, and ended up about three kilometers away in slightly insane. 

“J –“ 

“CULCHAPEUA! I need you out the back for a delivery! Arrêtez de flirter et se remettre au travail, vous minx effrontés!” The unseen voice called out jovially, and Alex briefly wondered if it belonged to some kind of flower shop god, intent on cockblocking Alex in French. Perhaps the deity is fond of calling its disciples various colorful insults? 

“I’m a bit rusty on my French, but did he just call you an asshat and a cheeky little minx in the same sentence?” Alex asked, choosing to store away and cherish the observation that Possibly An Angel had been flirting with him.

“Oh my god,” A light blush crept across Possibly An Angel’s luminous brown skin, “You speak French? Fuckity fuck, oh my fuck, I’m so sorry man, LAF YOU ENORMOUS FUCK, HE SPEAKS FRENCH!” 

As Possibly An Angel bickered with Possibly A Flower God, Alex watched on fondly. What had the angel called his possible overlord? Las? Alex considered the likelihood that the unseen French person’s name is Las. Perhaps it was short for Lasagna? Alex decided immediately that the French voice belonged to a lovely old man called Lasagna. 

As Alex was about to interrupt and ask for confirmation on his elderly Lasagna theory, a familiar figure entered the store, discernible within Alex’s peripheral vision. He unwillingly tore his gaze from Possibly An Angel, vowing to get his real name. His body recoiled upon hearing a familiar cough. 

“The fuck are you doing here, Madison? Accidentally leave one of your lungs here? Or has your sneaky ass sly motherfucking boyfriend sent you here for a little bit of espionage?” Alex aggressively whispered his yells, not wishing to cause a scene. 

Madison’s furious yells were returned in similar whisper form, the two circling one another and screaming under hushed breaths as Possibly An Angel halted his argument to watch the pair quizzically from behind the counter. 

“You FUCKER,” Alex hissed.

“This is a coincidence, Hamilton. I’m here to buy flowers for the funeral of a jacket _you_ burnt, you little shit.” Alex froze. He was faced with two options. One: accept what Madison was saying to be true and thus accept that Jefferson was holding a legitimate funeral for that horrendous jacket. Two: choose not to believe Madison, expose his true motives and probably end up in a fist fight. Alex looked at his tiny fists. His eyes scanned over Madison’s body. His neck was as thick as one of Alex’s thighs. 

Alex created a third option. 

“I’m gonna write you underground, motherfucker,” He grabbed the flowers from the counter, and with adrenaline pumping a concoction of stupidity and courage through his veins, pecked Possibly An Angel on the cheek.

“Call me!” He yelled, bolting out of the door and down the street.

It was only when his legs burned and each intake of breath seared his throat did Alex pause in the midst of his getaway.

“Fuck!” He wailed, dropping theatrically to the sidewalk, clutching one hand to his heart and the other against his forehead. As the realization swept over him, he was torn between crying in despair and fighting the entire universe for inflicting him with such unjust travesties. A man walking his dog gave him a concerned look, of which Alex took no notice of, his focus and thoughts devoted to freckles splattered against brown skin like a canvas, a bright grin, the fleeting brush of skin and its accompanying sparks. A name he didn't get, a phone number he -

“Didn't even fucking give him!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> french translations (thanks google!):
> 
> Oi! Il est un client! Faites votre travail, petite merde! / Oi! There's a customer! Do your job, you little shit!  
> Va te faire enculer! / Fuck you!  
> CULCHAPEUA! / ASSHAT!  
> Arrêtez de flirter et se remettre au travail, vous minx effrontés! / Stop flirting and get back to work, you cheeky little minx!
> 
> this fic can kind of be seen as a prequel fic for hamilton's sinning squad like if u squint but will become its own chaptered fic (im estimating around 40k)
> 
> speaking of: updates are coming for that fic in the next few days!! i promise!! sorry for being awful!!
> 
> please tell me what you think of this??


	2. Amaryllis

“What’s the occasion this time, Alex?” Alex fumbled, almost dropping the large bouquet of extravagant flowers as he entered the cosy apartment.

“What? I need a reason now to give my best friend, my roommate, the light of my life, _the_ Hercules Mulligan some lovely flowers?” Alex replied defiantly, locking the creaky door behind him. 

“You need a reason to do so for the fourth time this week, and since you’re refusing to admit it’s because of your crush –“ 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Alex interrupted, his focus suddenly turned to fussing about with the flowers, “And no more flowers for my best friend. My traitorous, mean, accusation throwing best friend. These are to celebrate,” Alex paused, mind racing, and Hercules' raised his eyebrow expectantly.

“Karl Marx’s birthday.” Alex finished proudly. 

“And when is Karl Marx’s birthday?”

“Today.”

“And what’s today's date?”

Alex hesitated, his kingdom of lies being set alight before him.

“Capitalist scum!” Alex hurled the flowers at Hercules' head, only to have them deftly intercepted by his hand. 

“Alex, you’re spending all your wages buying flowers. Not that you nourish yourself properly anyway, but Washington would damn near retire if he found out that he was paying for your angsty pining over some florist. Just get their number already.” Hercules spoke patiently.

“You don’t say!” Alex groaned, throwing himself into Hercules' steady arms. He easily supported Alex’s thin frame, rolling his eyes good-naturedly at the smaller man’s antics. “He hasn’t been at the store since the first time I went. Not even the nice little old French man called Lasagna is there. The French man might also be a flower god, but it’s not like I can further my investigation, since they have been unjustly ripped from my life! Instead some buffoon named Charles who has no freckles, a sub-par giggle and the allure of Jefferson’s burnt, cum stained purple jacket is serving and I'm _sad,_ Herc!” 

Hercules sighed, long since familiar with his roommate’s histrionic tendencies. Hercules crossed the room, Alex in his arms bridal style, as he chose to ignore the worrying comments about flower gods and cum stains. The man could only take so much. He settled Alex from his arms to the couch, forcing him to release his grip from Hercules.

"Honestly, Alex, you’re like a Puerto Rican koala bear.” Alex pouted, thinking of the unjust nature of life, as not even his best friend would hold him in his time of need, honestly, the betrayal –

“How about weekly check ins, then? So you won’t be buying a bunch of ridiculous flowers every day?” Alex sighed, acquiescing to the idea. 

“Since when did you become the voice of rationality?”

“Probably since our first year at university when you got drunk and tried to convince everyone there was a ghost.” Alex smiled fondly at the memory, his agony over Possibly An Angel momentarily forgotten.

“Come on, there’s a documentary about 1914 Russia that’ll cheer you up.” Hercules' voice was fond as he grabbed the remote and flicked through the channels. Alex brightened, snuggling into the couch.

“Will you make your world-renown chocolate chip cookies to fill the void in my heart?”

“Don’t I always?” 

The next two weeks passed in a blur for Alex. The campaign had sped up, and between studying for his degree and managing the part time job, he found himself in a whirlwind of activity. There was always something to be written, always writing to be edited; an endless hurricane of work.

“It’s like Washington’s shoved hypothetical fists of stress in my proverbial ass, you know? The only thing fucking me right now is the amount of work I have to do.” Alex complained, Angelica rolling her eyes.

“You need to think before you speak. Your words have consequences. Namely, disgusting imagery.” Angelica winced, scrunching her face up against an onslaught of visual depictions.

“You sound just like Washington.”

“Speaking of, I need you to have that draft speech on his plan for small businesses in by the end of the week…” 

He worked tirelessly, barely finding time to shower, sleep and eat. Yet both weeks he found the time to stop in at the flower shop. Alex had never been the greatest at juggling priorities. 

He entered both times with hopeful optimism, only to be met with the disappointing face of the ever-so-irritating Charles. Alex swore he must have a bouquet of rose’s perpetually lodged in his ass, for he refused to answer any of Alex’s questions other than haughtily and with an air of incompetent condescension. 

“So, where are the other guys that work here? Haven't seem them in ages. Haha.” Alex’s attempt at amicable casualness clearly hadn’t worked, as Charles shot him an untrusting glare.

“Off on business.” He answered shortly, and Alex considered flinging him into the sun.

“When will they be back? Haha.”

“I don’t see why it concerns you,” Alex’s irritation grew into anger. He clenched his fists, stalking out of the store before he fell victim to his impulses and punched the man in the mouth. _Ha,_ , Alex thought ruefully, _that would’ve shut him up._

The trip back to the office was compromised solely of Alex planning how to extract the information from Charles, and then how to promptly murder him. He walked to his office, throwing himself into his desk chair to write out the plan.

_Torture Then Murder: How Possibly An Angel is Possibly Going to Have Human Flesh as Fertilizer  
A thirty-three step plan by Alexander Hami_

A brief succession of rapid knocks at the door made Alex jump, and he hurriedly scattered papers across his desk to hide what was essentially his hypothetical plan to commit homicide. The door opened, Angelica’s head peeking into his office. 

“Alex, Washington’s out of town so I need you to sign off for this delivery…” She trailed off, scrutinizing his face. A brief flash of panic surged through Alex. Could she read minds? It was only hypothetical, really, he didn’t have the stomach for gore. “When was the last time you slept?”

He sighed with relief, trying to look more awake in order to avoid concerning her. He vaulted over his desk, his foot getting caught as he did so, and ended up sprawled on the floor of his office below her.

“Motherfucker,” He extracted his face from the floor, “Good! Yes! Recently! And for a healthy period of time! Did you see that? That was some Olympic shit right there.” Angelica’s eyes widened in concern, Alex interrupting her before she could inquire about his sanity, “Delivery! Woo, yeah! It’s delivery time!” Alex barged out of the office, half way down the corridor before halting to turn and face where Angelica stood, watching him closely.

“Which way is the delivery again?” 

She rolled her eyes, wordlessly turning in the opposite direction to lead the way.

“It’s been a stressful week, huh? I don’t know how you do it. You’re twenty and balancing between getting your degree and this shitfest of a part-time job. Are you doing okay, Alex?” She asked, the building’s harsh lighting somehow glinting off her highlighter immaculately. Alex frowned. The same lighting served only to pronounce his eye-bags and make his dark eyes appear sullen.

“You’ve gotta teach me how to do makeup, Ang. Seriously, I look like a murderer in this lighting. And not the hot kind, either.” Alex rambled, restless after sitting at his desk for so long and evasive of Angelica’s gentle questioning.

“There’s such a thing as hot murderers?” Angelica raised a perfect eyebrow, and Alex internally vowed to reach her level of craftsmanship one day.

“Have you seen Norman Bates? Y’know, from Psycho? Anthony Perkins could murder me and I’d momentarily rise from the dead to thank him.” 

“Didn’t he die ages ago? So wouldn’t he have to arise from the dead first to murder you?” 

“Touché.” They wove their way through the building, chatting easily. Wit met wit, intellect met intellect, and they fell into the easy conversation that had fueled their close friendship since the beginning.

“I could look good and _dismantle_ gender roles, honestly Ang, what’s not to love about makeup? Asides from the fact I can’t do it,” Alex complained.

“Instead of makeup you could just, y’know, _sleep_ ,” She retorted, handing him a clip board. “Here, just sign that and we’ll have them sign their bit, and it’s done. Just through there.” She nudged Alex through a door as he scribbled his signature, tongue poking out in concentration as he tried to fit his flowery cursive onto the line.

“Ah, Angelica! Just the usual flowers today. George is not here?” A French voice rung out. Alex almost broke his neck snapping up to look around the room.

Possibly An Angel stood next to the French speaker, whom Alex sadly noted was not a little old man but instead a tall brown man, the same age as Alex, standing with his hands on his hips and a shit eating grin on his face. Alex drunk in the site of Possibly An Angel as though he were parched, taking in the freckles and curls, his eyes as wide as Alex’s with recognition.

Possibly An Angel grinned and Alex felt his soul ascend. 

“It’s Alex, right?” Possibly An Angel crossed the room, his excited grin making Alex’s stomach flip.

“Alexander, yeah, and you’re?”

“John Laurens.” Alex subconsciously gravitated closer to him, crossing the small distance between them. John edged closer to him in response, and Alex suspected the movement was not consciously acted upon. The two of them orbited one another without intending to, the rest of the galaxy drowned out. _The space analogy works,_ Alex thought, _since his freckles make constellations. But I’ve never seen a night sky as glorious as him._

Both shared similar ecstatic grins, their knowing eye contact unbroken since Alex had looked up from the clip board. Alex decided right then and there that Jefferson could perform an avant-garde break-dance routine to apologize for his general existence and Alex still wouldn’t look away from the man in front of him.

“Okay, you cheeky minxes!” The young French man stepped between them, squeezing into what little space their proximity provided. He signed the clipboard Alex held limply, fondly patting John on the cheek with one hand while executing an elaborate signature with the other. Alex pouted as John was cruelly taken from his direct line of sight. Angelica raised her eyebrows at him questioningly, and Alex felt his face grow red. Perhaps their staring and physical proximity had been more noticeable than he'd thought. Alex did what any mature adult would. He poked his tongue out at her. 

“Mon ami, I hate to tear apart such a lovely reunion, especially after putting up with all of your whinging, but we have more deliveries to,” The young French man paused, “Deliver!” He finished with a flourish. 

Possibly A – _No,_ Alex reminded himself, _John,_ John let out an exasperated sigh, and Alex hoped with every fiber of his being that it was because he didn’t want to leave Alex’s presence.

“Guess I’m leaving,” John smiled at Alex over the tall shoulder separating them, and Alex leaned up on the tip of his toes to return the grin. 

"Is this where we break out into a duet? Dibs on Maureen.” 

John laughed, the harsh office lighting casting an angelic glow as he threw his head back. Alex lost his breath as the corner of John’s eyes scrunched into crinkles. Angelica coughed bluntly, but Alex steadfastly ignored her in favor of continuing to stare at John. The man had gotten his Rent reference, for gods sake. Alex immediately wanted to marry him. 

The French man looked at John, then to Alex, and with a billowing laugh skipped from his position between the two of them to the room’s exit. 

“Mon ami!” He called from the door frame, and John rolled his eyes fondly, smiling apologetically at Alex. He grabbed the pen from the clipboard Alex held, long since forgotten in his hand. With a determined gleam in his eyes he grabbed Alex’s arm gently, scribbling something onto it. As his fingers wrapped around Alex’s wrist, he felt sharp jolts of electricity run up his arm. The sparks at the contact made them both jump, a slow blush blooming on Alex’s cheeks as John hurriedly scribbled away. 

“In case there’s an issue with the flowers. Or you see a dog you wanna show me. Just –“ 

“Mon ami, vous petite baise! Le temps d'aller!” 

“Text me!” John called, bolting from the room to catch up with the French man who had begun to skip down the corridor out of sight. 

Alex looked at his arm, the sharp jolts fading to a tingle. A mega-watt grin split his face as he saw what John had scribbled. His number, surrounded by flowers and a turtle that appeared to have been run over by a truck. 

“What was that about?” Angelica startled Alex from where he had been lovingly smiling at the turtle. Tortoise? Alex decided that, since he didn’t know the specifications of its species, he’d just have to call it John. John the Ambiguous Testudines. For science’s sake. 

“Uh –“ Angelica looked at his arm, sharply taking in the ink that now inhabited it. 

“Okay, firstly, what the fuck is wrong with that turtle?” Alex drew his arm to his chest, equally offended on behalf of John (both the drawer and the drawing) and protective of them. 

“I think it’s cute,” He started, only to be interrupted. 

“It looks like the turtle version of fetus Voldemort. You know when he’s all gross in that weird afterlife train station sequence? That, except in turtle form.” 

“It’s sweet!” Alex huffed, “A little different, but adorable.” 

“Oh, wait! I got it! It looks sentient. Like someone tried to make a sacrifice to bring it to life, but something went horribly wrong. Either that, or it looks like my grandmother’s arm.” 

“How dare you.” Alex turned away indignantly, petting the drawing as though to console it. Usually, he would have remained in the room to debate the artistic merits of the drawing and defend John the Ambiguous Testudines honor, but he had more important things to do. Namely, John Laurens. 

_**Text** John Laurens,_ Alex mentally corrected himself. He walked through the building and willed himself to derail the train of thought that seemed intent on sending him crashing and burning. _Don’t think about having sex with him! Think about,_ Alex racked his brain desperately, _Burr! Burr having sex!_ Alex flinched, _Okay, not Burr, and definitely not Burr having sex. That was a terrible choice. A turrible choice._ Alex snickered to himself, earning a few worried looks. He took no notice, returning to thoughts of John. For all Alex knew, the man could be a raging homophobe. _I’ve never met a homophobe who draws Ambiguous Testudines and flowers,_ Alex rationalized.

 _It’s not like you’ve gotten close enough to a homophobe to know their artistic inclinations,_ Alex argued back to himself.

“Aaron Burr, sir!” Alex exclaimed, bending down to help Burr retrieve the paperwork that he had dropped upon Alex accidentally knocking into him. 

“You’ve never, ah, been one for looking where you’re going, huh?” Burr smiled, a thin line that barely quirked his lips. Alex had always thought that the smile looked as though Burr had tasted something akin to foot sweat. 

“Yeah, sorry, you know how outer-space is. Always mesmerizing, inevitably distracting. Guess I’m a bit uncontrollable when I'm out of orbit, huh?” Alex asked, blissfully unaware that Burr hadn’t the slightest idea as to what he was referring to. 

“Uh? Hm. I suppose so.” Burr’s confused face settled back into its usual stoicism. He didn’t inquire further as to Alex’s thoughts, not eager to open those particular flood gates. 

“Shit, Burr, sir! I need your opinion!” Burr’s smile tightened, “Do you think homophobes, generally speaking, are particularly inclined to drawing Ambiguous Testudines and flowers?” Alex spoke a mile a minute, gulping in air when he had finished. Burr looked momentarily startled. 

“Er, what exactly provoked this question?” 

Alex took another deep breath in. 

“Well –“ 

“Oh, I can hear the phone in my office ringing. Excuse me, Hamilton. Another time.” Burr smiled his foot sweat smile, walking away in a direction Alex noted was decidedly not to his office. Alex pouted at his lack of a second opinion before erupting into giggles. Trust Burr to refrain from revealing his opinion on the correlation between Ambiguous Testudines and homophobia. 

Alex made his way back to his office, occasionally bursting into more fits of giggles. He took in the stacks of unfinished work on his desk, deciding to to finish it later, besides, it wasn’t as though a few less hours of sleep could hurt. The murder plan for Charles peeked out underneath it, and Alex joyously threw it in the trash. There was no need for homicide, and he doubted that John would date a murderer. Alex frowned. He doubted that John would want to date him at all. He was perpetually restless, constantly working, and giggled to himself in crowded public spaces. Alex sighed, resigning himself to at least texting the man. 

He paced the office, trying to compose a text that conveyed his witticism, kindness, affability, eagerness and desire to suck John’s di – _No,_ Alex corrected himself for the second time that hour. _Friendly texting. Texting between bros. Pals. Buddies. I have to be chill. Cool. Calm. Collected._

**mynameisaham: boy howdy meeting you sure was fun but giving you the succ would be more fun**

Alex sighed, erasing the entire message. 

**mynameisaham: marry me i bet the floral arrangements would be bomb af lets name our kids after musical characters but not sweeney todd i mean theres no way that could end well**

Alex furiously backspaced, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He wanted to give a good first impression, none of that Mr Darcy shit. 

**mynameisaham: ur face makes me want to be a better person**

Alex smiled, beginning to erase the unsent message. Whilst it wasn’t technically false, he didn’t think being forward would help his case, and certainly not their blooming friendship. Alex’s focus momentarily lapsed to John. As his concentration slipped, so did his fingers.

“NO!” Alex screamed as the message sent. Unholy sounds were torn from his body as he desperately tried to undo it. 

“NO NO NO NO NO NO NO,” Alex yelled, his voice reaching octaves previously unknown to him. 

“Fuckity fuck oh fuck oh no oh FUCK,” Alex panicked, his face scrunched in concentration and his mind running on blind terror as he furiously typed out something, anything, to rescue the situation. He hastily typed out another text, hitting send and hurling his phone across the room. 

The phone buzzed, and Alex scrambled across the room to where it dejectedly sat. He hastily unlocked the phone, John the Ambiguous Testudines watching him from his arm. It’s beady eyes stared at the screen unblinkingly. 

“Don't judge me,” Alex murmured to the drawing, finally unlocking his phone. 

**mynameisaham: haha oops shit i was about to text you but got a text from someone else and apparently i cant text two people without getting mixed up haha sorry about that haha**

**mynameisaham: anyway hi!! its alexander, the guy currently wearing a tustidune of the elongated variety on my arm? i know you had texting specifications, but i at least have to be taken out to dinner before i send dog pics**

**imjohnlaurens: hey man i’m glad you texted, i wasn’t sure if you would!**

Alex grinned, the phone clutched centimeters from his face as he stood in the middle of his office. 

**mynameisaham: of course i would, i couldn’t let the haunting enigma of your drawing go unanswered: is it a turtle or tortoise?**

**imjohnlaurens: usually the question i get asked about it is along the lines of ‘what the ever loving fuck in the name of the sweet holy spirit is that’ so i appreciate ur enquiry**

**imjohnlaurens: but i don’t reveal species specifications until i have taken you out to dinner**

Alex’s heart almost stopped. 

**imjohnlaurens: does it count as dinner if you get drunk with laf and i?**

Alex’s stomach swooped in disappointment. _Of course he just wants to chill as bros, stop getting your hopes up. You only end up getting crushed when they do._

**mynameisaham: that would be enough :) do you mind if my roommate joined us? he looks like he could kill a man with his bare hands and tbh he definitely could but he wouldn't because he’s very cool and nice**

Alex cringed at himself. He physically recoiled from his phone, aghast at having tried to convince John that his roommate was good to drink with by reasoning that he was capable of murder. His phone was dead silent, seemingly mirroring what Alex wished he was. Finally, it buzzed in his vice like grip. 

**imjohnlaurens: fuck sorry laf asked why i was laughing at my phone but yeah that sounds great! 8pm at SOT?**

**imjohnlaurens: oh btw laf is the french guy i work with, the one with the big hair and even bigger shit eating grin?**

**mynameisaham: oh yeah he’s the guy who is decidedly not a little old man called Lasagna**

**imjohnlaurens: what**

**mynameisaham: see you tonight!!!**

Alex’s heart soared. Regardless of the setting, he couldn’t wait to see John again. He quickly texted Hercules, excitement and anticipation coursing through him. The logical whispers in his mind alerted him to just how bad he had it for a man he barely knew. Alex drowned them out by planning the names of the constellations for John’s freckles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> french translations (google out here doing The Most):  
> Mon ami, vous petite baise! Le temps d'aller! / My friend, you little fuck! Time to go! 
> 
> 100% linguistically and historically accurate!
> 
> im back to school and under the heavy weight of study and the accompanying agony its super difficult for me to update but im trying my best!!
> 
> next up: your favorite revolutionaries get absolutely fucking sloshed together!
> 
> your feedback and comments are really really appreciated!!


	3. Iris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i really like lams fic tropes. 
> 
> this chapter is 3k of drunk pining! enjoy!

“Alex, man, hurry up. You don’t wanna be late for loverboy, do you?” Hercules' voice called out. Alex huffed, throwing the eighth shirt he’d tried on aside. He panicked, quickly grabbing a t-shirt from the mountain of clothing he'd tossed to the floor as he agonized over what to wear, throwing it on before bounding down the small hall of his apartment to Hercules.

“Finally,” Hercules admonished.

“Is this okay? No, you’re right, it’s too much, I have to change –“Alex turned to re-enter his bedroom, only to be grabbed by Hercules.

“Oh no you don’t. What you’re wearing is fine. Very,” Hercules paused. “You.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It’s unapologetically political in the best way, you bastard.”

“That’s fair.” 

The two men made their way out of the apartment to the train station, Alex talking a mile a minute. 

“Just when I think you couldn’t talk any faster, I get to experience you nervous. Chill, Alex. John’ll love you. And if he doesn’t, he’s an idiot. Seriously, bro, relax. You’re practically rapping.”

Alex gasped, his hand clutching his heart. Perhaps he got a little talkative and melodramatic when he was nervous. Sue him.

“You want rapping? I’ll give you rapping, bitch.”

The rest of the train trip compromised of Alex freestyling. He was in the middle of an incredibly eloquent verse about Hercules’ possible sexual relations with horses when they arrived at the bar. Alex recognised the dimly lit sign immediately, _Story of Tonight_ blinking in dim neon through the darkness of the city. Alex froze mid rap, flowing slightly as he remembered all of the failed dates he’d had here. What if tonight turned out like all of this abysmal attempts at dating?

 _No,_ , Alex reprimanded himself, visibly shaking himself to a nonplussed Hercules, _as long as John isn’t a biphobic kleptomaniac or a raging furry there’s no way this could be as bad._

Alex and Hercules entered the crowded bar, the interior well-lit and cheerful. Alex looked through the crowd, trying to spot a particular freckled face and its heart-shattering grin.

“There!” Alex recognized the back of Lafayette’s head, his pony tail bobbing out from behind the booth seat. As the pair approach, the unmissable pony tail was thrown back in delight, laughter like wind chimes billowing out from the man.

“Yep, definitely Lafayette.” Alex murmured.

“Alexander!” John entered Alex’s line of sight, pushing himself up from his booth seat to be seen over Lafayette and the small crowd in the bar. 

“You alright, bro?” Hercules whispered, nudging Alex from his frozen position.

“Uh? Yeah. Am Alright.” Alex whispered back, his eloquence seeming to have packed up residency from his brain and moved to Nebraska at the sight of John. Apparently his limbs weren’t the only thing that froze, the clogs in his brain slowly started turning again and he returned John’s friendly grin. 

Alex and Hercules made their way over to the booth, Alex’s heartbeat quickening. He thought it might jump right out of his chest and onto the bar floor. That would be gross, and unfortunate, dying before he made it to John. Alex imagined the autopsy report: _Cause of death, cute boy intent on ruining my life with his beautiful fucking face._

They reached the booth, John jumping out of his seat to envelop Alex in a hug. Alex’s chin rested on John’s shoulder, puzzle pieces coming together, and he smelt cheap plastic fruit. 

“Do you use kids shampoo?” Alex immediately bit his lip, wishing for once in his life he could have a fucking brain-to-mouth filter. John just laughed, winking at Alex.

“You bet your ass I do. Strawberries and no-tears, that’s the shit.”

Lafayette’s boisterous laughter interrupted them, both men turning to face him with questions in their eyes and on their tongues. Beside him in the booth, Hercules erupted into a fit of laughter, the two gasping for breath. Alex and John looked to one another, both bemusedly confused, before noticing. Alex saw John’s Black Lives Matter shirt, the exact same as the one he was currently wearing, only in a different color. 

The two joined in the laughter before sitting in the booth, sharing a seat, Hercules and Lafayette opposite them. The seats were long enough to fit three people with ease, but the pair sat centimeters from one another. Alex tried not to dwell on it. He was running through his itemized lists of plausible reasons for their physical proximity, wondering if it was too much, if he should move. Alex was dwelling on it.

John smiled at him, snapping him out of it. Alex decided right then and there that a heart attack was imminent if John kept grinning at him like that – seriously, was a beaming smile ever not plastered on the man’s face? Alex moved impossibly closer. He would not die a man who was conscious of personal space.

Alex introduced himself to Lafayette, Hercules to John, the four ordered drinks and soon enough were well on their way to being drunk and best friends. _Drunk bestfriends,_ Alex's brain supplied. He looked at John. _You can settle for him only being a bestfriend. It’s better than not having him at all._

The four of them launched into conversation as though someone had paused it and simply hit play. What should’ve been a tumultuous trip of navigating first conversations with acquaintances felt instead like talking to people Alex had known all his life, or in a previous life. Alex quickly learnt piles of information about John, from his political activism to his affinity for dogs, piling it away in the back of his mind. 

“Sorry if we were late, by the way. Alex here couldn’t decide what to wea-“ Alex glared at Hercules, fingers itching to strangle him. He wasn’t the greatest at hiding his severe lack of chill from John, considering how he could barely tear his eyes from the man, but he’d be damned if Hercules exposed him further.

“Couldn’t decide what to…rap about.” Hercules finished poorly, taking a long drink of his beer. 

“Rap about?” John asked, looking between Hercules and Alex with amusement. 

“He’s just bitter because I exposed him for being a horse fucker through verse.” Lafayette choked on his blue martini, the tiny umbrella sticking out of the drink nearly taking out his eye. 

“Ah, did something get lost in translation? You fuck horses?” 

“I don’t fuck horses!” A man passing their booth gave them a quizzical, fearful glance. John wiggled his eyebrows at him, and Alex doubled over in laughter.

“I don’t fuck horses!” Hercules whisper-yelled, ducking his head and glaring at Alex. 

“He fucks horses.” Alex stage whispered to John, who’s loud laughter set off tiny explosions of warmth in Alex’s stomach.

“I swear to god.” Hercules sighed, gulping the rest of drink.

“Why so defensive, Herc? Got something to hide?” John smirked at Alex, winking, and Alex joined in. 

“Yeah, Hercules. For someone who doesn’t fuck horses you sure feel the need to tell us it a lot. Laf, do you fuck horses?”

Lafayette bit back his own laughter, joining in the act.

“No, mon ami, I don’t. They are not my type.” 

“Hm. I, for one, know Lafayette does definitely not fuck horses. Yet he doesn’t feel the need to declare it. Alex, what’s your take on this?” John took the straw out of his fruity vodka drink, holding it to Alex as though it were a microphone. 

“Well, in my professional opinion,” 

“Your professional opinion?!” Hercules interjected.

“Yes, you see, I’ve lived with a horse fucker for many years and studied their ways. I have a PhD in treating those with the affliction of fucking horses. In the business we call them bronies. And you, my friend, are definitely a horse fucker.” 

“Dear god.” Hercules muttered, holding his head in his hands.

“Here’s to Herc!” John yelled.

“The horse fucker!” Lafayette added, joyously clinking his drink with the others. 

“Honestly, whenever I go drinking with Alex this shit happens.” Hercules sighed, resigned. 

“You fuck a horse?” Lafayette asked, and Alex and John erupted into laughter. Alex leaned on John under the subtle guise of being out of breath. A quick glance at Hercules assured him he was, in fact, not being subtle at all. Alex couldn’t bring himself to care, his head resting on John’s shoulder and John’s arm ghosting over his back. 

“No! This all happened when we were drunk, god damnit. I was trying to tell Alex I fuck _with_ horses. Like, I love them, but platonically.” 

“Did you just no-homo horses?” John asked, and Alex had to clutch his arm to avoid falling off his seat from laughter. Absolutely no ulterior motives whatsoever. He reveled in the hardness of John’s bicep. To ensure he didn’t fall off his seat.

“How can you like horses, man? They have such untrustworthy eyes.” John’s words were beginning to slur, the accent he had previously informed Alex to be from a strict upbringing in South Carolina becoming more pronounced. 

“John’s right!” Alex giggled. He couldn’t stop dopily smiling, and whether that was the alcohol or John’s effect he didn’t know.

“Horses are adorable. Yes, their dark eyes may sometimes look murderous. But so do Alex’s!” Lafayette grinned triumphantly at Alex.

“At least I don’t look like the human embodiment of a fucking daffodil.” Alex quipped, much to the delighted cackles of Lafayette. 

John watched Alex curiously, and Alex stared back. Lafayette and Hercules were talking, their conversation a distant hum to Alex. Abruptly, John’s expression changed to one of realization, and he slammed his open palm to the table top excitedly. 

“You have some explaining to do, Mr Alexander.” Alex’s countenance, and his stomach, dropped like a rock sinking to the bottom of a riverbed. _Fuck oh shit fuck he’s realized just how helplessly enamored I am this is all Jefferson’s fault I don’t know how but I’m sure it is that little –_

“Who’s the lasagna man?” Alex let out a relieved sigh.

“The first time I came into the store, I heard you speaking to Laf, except I thought you called him Las. I, naturally, assumed it was a nickname for Lasagna, and thus concluded Laf was a sweet little old man and possible flower god. Needless to say I was very disappointed when I realized the reality of the situation.” John nodded solemnly, as though Alex had just explained the mysteries of the universe to him. Lafayette and Hercules looked up from their conversation, Lafayette poking his tongue out at Alex.

“Disappointed in me? At least I didn’t call my boss dad. You, ah, how you say, fuck up.” A Cheshire-cat grin broke out on Lafayette’s face, Hercules snickering to his side. 

“You told him Herc? I can’t believe you betrayed me. I feel like Judas right now.”

“You know you’re not Jesus, right?”

“What kind of friend are you?”

“I’ll defend your honor, Alexander!” John yelled, taking out his straw to duel the tiny umbrella in Lafayette’s martini. The two men duelled, Alex loyally cheering John on.

“Victory!” John yelled drunkenly as Lafayette’s miniature umbrella snapped. 

“My hero!” Alex brazenly kissed John on the cheek, reveling in the faint blush that tinged his dark skin.

“And they say chivalry is dead.” Hercules laughed, rolling his eyes. The comment went unnoticed by Alex, who was once again engaging in what had become his new favourite hobby: staring at John. John stared back, the two of them in a reverie. Alex felt as though he were floating. Like a meteorite out in space, with a gravitational pull to John, just him and John circling one another in their own universe. Alex had read a book, once, about trying to unlock the secrets of the universe. In his and John’s universe, there were no secrets to unlock; they had found something, something without complexities and endless, unanswerable questions. A universe where solely he and John existed, existed within one another, together, John’s warm eyes and Alex’s smile held no mystifications. 

_No,_ Alex argued with himself, _there is one mystery. Did I create this universe in my head, or with John? Does he feel it too?_

So maybe Alex got poetic when he was drunk. Sue him.

Lafayette let out an exaggerated cough, pulling the men back to Earth.

“Alex, you work for George, oui?” Alex saw John roll his eyes, only in his drunken form it looked as though he were being possessed. _If anyone could look good possessed,_ Alex’s brain slugged to piece together its train of thought, the alcohol taking effect, _it's him._

“Alex?” Lafayette asked, eyebrows raised knowingly. 

“Oh, sorry. You mean Washington? Yeah, I’m his speech writer, he’s such a great man and somehow an even better candidate, honestly, we’re gonna fucking kill this election. Are you into politics?”

“He wants to be in to politics, if ya’ll are picking up what I’m putting down.” John commented, wiggling his eyebrows ridiculously at Lafayette. Alex and Hercules look at one another in confusion, definitely not picking up what he was putting down. 

“John si vous ne fermez pas votre bouche putain Je jure devant Dieu." Alex's fluency in French provided no more insight to what Lafayette meant than had he spoken it in English. "Ah, somewhat, Alex. American politics are very…” Lafayette trailed off, waving his hand as though looking to find his words in the air. “Disheartening.” 

“Don’t get Alex started. Seriously. Don’t.” 

Alex opened his mouth to retaliate, only for John to answer for him.

“Fucked! They’re fucked! They! Are! Fucked!” John slammed his fists on the table between words, and Alex laughed. He had heard John’s well-articulated opinions on political matters, what with his extensive work in activism, but seeing him being so blunt sent Alex into a fit of giggles. 

“The upcoming election is important for us, mon ami. If George doesn’t win,” Lafayette sighed, pushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “We’d lose the flower shop. All my poor little flowers. And John would have to stop buying such excessive things for his little turtle.”

“Okay, firstly, the flower shop would be taken from you? Secondly, you have a turtle?” Alex curiously looked between Lafayette and John.

“Oui. The opposition, they want the area of the store to build one of those angry tall houses, the ones made out of metal.”

“A skyscraper?”

“Exactly! It’d put us out of business.” Lafayette frowned sadly into what was possibly his sixth or twelfth blue martini. Hercules placed a consoling hand on his shoulder.

“His name is Little King Trashmouth.” John supplied.

“The opposing mayoral government?” Hercules asked.

“No, well, it’d be fuckin’ fitting. I meant my turtle. His name is Little King Trashmouth. Trashmouth for short. But only if you’re tight.” 

For a moment, there was silence. Then the four men erupted into raucous laughter. The rest of the evening followed in a similar fashion, Alex eagerly listening to John talk about the art degree he was studying for, Lafayette his flowers, and Hercules the brilliant sisters he was designing matching dresses for. Alex hadn’t met them yet, being so busy with the campaign and college, but from Hercules’ anecdotes they sounded like the kind of people he ought to. 

They talked, and drank, and talked, and drank. Alex felt an unfamiliar ease settle over him. His usual impatient tapping fingers were frozen, his thoughts that usually tripped over concepts, ideas or tumbled through the future slowed down to enjoy the present. Alex felt a joyous contentment, one that settled deep in his bones and eroded their usual restlessness.

“Holy shit, it’s already midnight!” John exclaimed, holding his phone a little too close to his face to be sober.

“Noooo. Fuuuuuck. I have work tomorrow.” Alex looked sadly into his drink, and promptly chugged the rest of it.

“You could go to work. Or…” Alex knew that his own bright grin matched the twinkle of mischief in John’s eyes, “We could take down the government.”

“Fuck yeah!”

“Alex, you are the government.” Hercules hiccuped.

“Oui! Take down the government! Onarchy! No, shit, wait. How you say? Oh, anarchy!” Lafayette agreed enthusiastically. 

“Alright, we better get going before you start plotting a coup d'état. Alex, we can probably catch the next train if your drunk ass can manage to walk there.” Hercules made to move out of the booth, only for Lafayette to wrap his arms around the man like a French octopus. 

“Never! We live just a block away; you can stay with us. You’re drunk, and mon petit lion here has consumed his own body weight in alcohol.” 

Alex and Hercules thankfully agreed, the group somehow making it to John and Lafayette’s apartment safely, albeit stumbling. Alex had gotten into an altercation with a stop sign, and John had almost kidnapped someone’s dog, but they’d considered it a success.

“Welcome to our cosy abode! It smells like lavender cuz’ Laf’s a serial candle hoarder. I’ll get ya’ll some blankets and pillows.” John disappeared out of sight, humming drunkenly to himself. The apartment was larger than Alex’s own, but not substantially. The furniture was mismatched, most likely found on the side of the road, and flowers were unsurprisingly potted everywhere. 

Hercules ungracefully dumped himself onto one of the couches, asleep within seconds. Lafayette bid them good night, an unusual sly grin on his face, as though he knew something Alex didn’t. It irritated him slightly, but the thought was put out of his mind as he listened to John’s cheerful, if not somewhat out of tune, humming. 

“Alexaaaaandeeerrr!” John sang out his name as though it were a melody, Alex immediately going to find him. He turned into an open doorway, laughing as he saw John. Or, lack thereof. John was obscured by the pile of cushions and blankets he held, hair barely peeking out of the mountain of bedding.

“Mind giving me a hand, man?” John asked, voice slightly muffled.

“Why of course, my dear Laurens! Wait, is that your turtle?” Alex turned to the tank in drunken awe. In the corner of John’s room, the white walls adorned with political posters and sketches, was the large tank. In it, a turtle happily lounged on a resting bed out of the water. Alex thought the turtle had a similar smile to John’s, but even in his inebriation knew better than to say something so utterly fucking weird aloud. 

“Yeah!” John dropped the pile, making his way over to the tank. Alex followed, still in awe of the little creature.

“Alex, meet Little King Trashmouth. Little King Trashmouth, meet Alex. You can pet him if you want. Just gently stroke his shell, he’s like a little slug baby in a taco.” Alex did as instructed, watching John smile fondly at his turtle. 

“He’s adorable.” Alex smiled, not looking away from John. John’s eyes lifted from the turtle to Alex. Alarm bells sounded in Alex’s head. _Bad idea! You’re drunk! Stop immediately!_ Alex’s brain screamed, _Good idea! You’re drunk! Do it immediately!_ Alex’s brain yelled back. He ignored his thoughts, leaning into John’s space. John leaned closer, the eye contact unbroken –

“FUCK!” Alex screamed, quickly taking his hand out of the tank to nurse the turtle-mouth shaped bite in it.

“Bad Little King Trashmouth! Apologize!” John admonished. “I’m sorry, he never does that. Well, he did it to this one guy, but he hated that guy.”

“Your turtle hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“He wants me dead!”

“He was just jealous!” John laughed, and Alex furrowed his brow. Jealous? Whatever John meant was unknown and far too complex for drunk Alex to figure out. Instead, he stowed the comment away for sober investigation and analysis.

“C’mon.” John fell onto his bed, motioning for Alex to follow. “It’s fuckin cold. And I doubt your drunk ass can make it back down the hallway.” Alex scoffed, climbing into the bed and doing his best to ignore the quickening of his heart beat. Its rhythm sped up as John pulled a blanket over them, a marching band drum intent on deafening him.

“My drunk ass is great, thank you very much” Alex replied in faux indignation.

“I don’t doubt that.” John laughed. The drum beat of his heart resounded in his ears as John leaned over him to turn off the lights, a soft hum of electricity remaining where skin had met skin long after he pulled away.

“G’night, Alexander. Tonight was the best.” John’s voice mumbled to the left of Alex.

“Goodnight, John. It was.” _You're the best,_ Alex wanted to say. “Your evil turtle better not kill me in my sleep.” He said instead.

John let out a snort, already on the verge of unconsciousness. Alex did his best to quiet his heart, his thoughts, his feelings. _I'm fucked._ John snuffled in his sleep, and Alex smiled fondly in spite of himself. _I'm so fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man i just fuckin love [clenches fists] space metaphors and run on sentences
> 
> french translations: john si vous ne fermez pas votre bouche putain Je jure devant Dieu / john if you don’t shut your whore mouth i swear to god
> 
> hopefully the ridiculous length and references to bob’s burgers makes up for the ridiculous amount of time it took me to update. sorry!! im trying to do better i promise!!
> 
> psa: the book ref is aristotle and dante discover the secrets of the universe. its fuckin beautiful and queer and isn’t plagued with run on sentences. u should read it 
> 
> your comments are honestly so appreciated so if you can leave one please do!! i live for this shit!!!


	4. Acacia

“So,” Eliza began, a soft smile on her lips, “How’d the date with flower shop boy go?” 

Alex sputtered indignantly, ignoring the twist in his heart. He regained his composure to elegantly wipe his face, clearing away the lemonade that had spurted out of his nose.

“How the hell did you know about – it wasn’t even a date we just chilled – bros being bros –“ Alex cut himself off, words tumbling over one another to leave his mouth. Eliza watched him fondly, laughing good-naturedly. 

“Angelica told me.”

Alex cursed inwardly. _Damn that woman and her immaculate makeup._ His eyes looked upwards as he shook his fist under the café’s table, cursing the universe too. 

“Firstly, it wasn’t a date. Secondly, it went brilliantly, or so I thought. Thirdly, I seem to have run out of things to list off.” 

“Going out for drinks then waking up in his bed the following morning sounds an awful lot like a date to me.” Eliza replied sweetly. Alex didn’t bother to ask her how she had obtained such information. He foggily remembered calling Angelica the next morning as he left the apartment with Herc, still drunk from the previous night. The memory was hazy, the words he’d slurred into his phone trapped under the murky depths of alcohol and time. He could remember a few things, telling her about the turtle and John’s biceps, but that alone was enough to convince him he didn’t want to recall the remainder of their conversation. 

Alex twitched, pulling himself back into the present. Eliza watched him, her eyes softly encouraging him to speak to her. It was the same look she had worn two years prior when Alex had first met her, drunk and crying over a Garfield mug in Burr’s kitchen. It had been some kind of work party, and Angelica had arrived with her sisters in tow. The mug had been a reminder of his ex-girlfriend Sam, and a painful one at that. Eliza had sat him down, gently extracted the mug from his vice-like grip and listened. 

“Why the fuck did Burr have a Garfield mug?” He wondered aloud, subtly attempting to change the conversation topic. 

“Pardon? Alex, what on Earth kind of attempt to change the subject is that?”

“Seriously. At that party, when we met. That mug alone has more of a personality than Burr ever has. Can you even imagine him and his stoic I-sold-my-soul eyes drinking out of a bright blue mug picturing a grinning Garfield exclaiming his hard on for lasagna? I have _questions_ , Eliza.” 

“Alex,” Eliza pulled his hands into her own and he returned the eye contact he hadn’t been conscious of avoiding, “We don’t have to talk about it. You’ve just been acting odd since that night. I’m worried.”

Alex sighed, pulling a stray black strand of hair behind his ear. “The night was fucking fantastic, Eliza. He’s…” Alex’s hands left Eliza’s, gesticulating as he spoke, “Y’know that feeling when you finally remember a word that’s been on the tip of your tongue for ages? That satisfaction, the click, knowing you were missing something, grasping for it, but not knowing what that something is? Then bam, you’ve got it, fuck you, Webster dictionary.” His rapid hand movements and expressive countenance paused, checking for confirmation from Eliza. She nodded, an unreadable look in her eyes. Understanding, but there was something else. Alex shrugged it away as the trick of the light. 

“That’s what talking to him was like. Boom, there it is, your own unknowable is sitting next to you giggling about the dick in Dickens. That elusive _something_ has become a _someone._ ”

Eliza studied his face, looking for an answer to her confusion. 

“Then why have you been acting so odd? Did something happen the next morning after you called Angelica?” 

Alex began to fidget, frowning at his hands. “He left before I woke up. Thankfully, because I was still pissed. But he hasn’t responded to any of my texts since. And no, I can’t text Lafayette, because that’s sad and desperate. And no, I can’t visit the store, because that’s sad and desperate with a hint of roses.” 

_Sad and desperate. Because waiting for a delivery of flowers to the office like a vulture waiting for the collapse of a dying man isn’t sad or desperate. Because checking your texts so often you did so in the middle of crossing a road and almost got run over by a furious cyclist isn’t sad or desperate. Oh, and of course, keeping that dumb sticky note isn’t sad or desperate, no, Alex, you’re the pinnacle of coolness._

“Sticky note?” Eliza asked, watching Alex patiently. He had missed what she said, the cacophony of his thoughts drowning out her soft voice.

“Huh?”

“You’re mumbling about sticky notes.” Eliza told him, concern seeping into the edge of her tone.

“Oh. Oh! Yes. I need to make a sticky note, of course. To remind me to buy…things. An egg.” Alex blurted. Under pressure he could never make the right choices or say the right words.

“An egg?”

“Yup!”

“A single egg?”

“Uno eggo!” Alex exclaimed, a brief silence following the proclamation. Alex wondered how much he would have to tip for one of the waiters to strangle him.

“God, you can stop looking at me so pitifully.” Alex’s tone was clipped and sharped, and he winced as the words left his mouth. He knew how selfish he was, reprimanding Eliza when she was only being good to him. But he couldn’t _stand_ pity, especially over what he had come to call the John Incident, Or Lack Thereof. 

“Alright, Alex. The picnic coming up soon?” Eliza prompted, sensing his desperation to change the subject. 

_Thank god for her emotional telepathy. She’s the Charles Xavier of feelings._

“I can’t wait to throw things at Jefferson.” Eliza’s giggles soothed Alex, his confusion and pain over the John Incident, Or Lack Thereof subsiding as she told him an anecdote about Peggy, a strange old man with a red mustache and a blender. Alex knew he shouldn’t feel so crushed over John, considering he had known him so briefly. He blurted this out to Eliza as they left the café. 

“Perhaps its knowing what could have been that hurts the most.” They hugged one another goodbye, promising to bring artillery to aim at Jefferson’s face for the picnic. 

Eliza’s words stuck with Alex, niggling at him all night. On the train ride home, while he yelled at the contestants on Chopped, eating dinner with Hercules and onto the following morning as he got dressed for work. 

He opened the door to leave the apartment, coffee thermostat clutched tightly in his hand, he called out to Hercules. His head appeared around the doorway into his bedroom, pins for his design dangerously clamped between his teeth.

“ALEXANDER HAMILTON DOESN’T DO PERHAPS’.” He bellowed, slamming the door closed on his bewildered roommate. 

The day moved at a sluggish pace, as though Alexander was on fast forward and the world in slow motion. He looked up from the page he had been furiously scribbling on to glare at the clock on his wall. 

_Why must time always be interfering with my plans?_

A knock sounded, his office door opening and revealing Burr. 

“Burr, sir! What are you doing here? If this is about the oven in the staff kitchen I can assure you I had nothing to do with it. I just walked in and it was already on fire, someone’s been practicing dark magic. Probably Jefferson, he’s evil enough for it.” Burr’s face didn’t respond to Alex’s ramblings, he simply acknowledged it with a nod and moved on. 

“Washington’s returned. We’re having that staff picnic. Remember?” Burr’s face twitched ever so slightly, as though the charring scent had infiltrated his nostrils at the mere mention of it. Perhaps Alexander wasn’t the greatest of cooks. 

_No. I’m definitely a shit cook. Gordon Ramsey would destroy me. No more perhaps’, god damn it. No more ambiguity or ambivalence._

Alex looked at Burr. He stood in the doorway, patiently watching and waiting for Alex to reply. Here Alex was, trying to escape perhaps’, and the human embodiment of it stood blocking the exit. He cursed the universe once again. If Alex wanted to be rid of perhaps’, he would have to do it himself. 

_Shit, that sounds like I’m gonna murder Burr._ He hastily checked to see if Burr could read his thoughts, but the man’s expression remained unchanged. _No, I’ve got to see John, get an answer, eradicate that niggling perhaps._

“Right! The staff picnic, yes, how could I forget. A celebration of our fearless leader returning from war.” 

“He was in New Jersey.” 

“Same thing, Burr!” Alex carelessly threw aside the speech he was working on and skipped past Burr. He made sure to grab some grapes from the staff kitchen to launch into Jefferson’s smug face, eyes expertly avoiding the hole in the wall where an oven should have been. 

The car ride to the picnic was loud, with the Schuyler sisters laughing and arguing on either side of him. He joined in, giggling along with them, but the pain of John’s rejection lingered. Every silence gave his brain had to run away from the present and burn itself by playing with the flames of the past and perhaps’. He countered his brains forlorn masochism by going over the plan. Step one, go to the picnic. Step two, go to the flower shop. Step three, have his heart broken. Step four, mend broken heart with Hercules’ cookies. 

They pulled up to the picnic, Eliza masterfully reverse parking. The four of them tumbled out of the car like exuberant puppies, looking around the picturesque field. Other staff had already claimed a table under the shade, behind it a well-tended-to forest, and a grassy field sprawled out in front of it. Despite the low temperature, the New York sun peeked timidly through the clouds, casting enough shine that Peggy was already berating her sisters on the necessity of sunscreen. 

“Alexander!” He froze. He looked at the Schuyler’s, laughing obliviously. They hadn’t heard the voice. Unless there was nothing to be heard. _Shit shit shit. I’m losing it. The fucker couldn’t just haunt my dreams, could he? Now he’s going to haunt my reality?_

A strong hand touched Alex on the shoulder. He flinched, turning around to see –

“Hey, you.” John’s worried smile betrayed his casual tone. Alex stared at his hand on his shoulder and he quickly retracted it, fidgeting nervously. 

As Alex stared stunned at John, he realised three fundamental truths at the exact same time. One, at the mere sight of John his legs felt wobbly and his heart stammered. Two, he still had ridiculously powerful feelings for the man that stood before him. Three, he was going to kick this man’s ass.

“What in the name of sweet baby Jesus? You ignore me for days then show up at a work picnic? You beautiful bastard – what the ever loving fuck –“

“Woah, woah. Gwash invited us. My phone broke, its being repaired. And Laf’s here too.” John nodded towards Lafayette whom, Alex noted, was staring a little too intently at his boss. “Sorry I didn’t contact you, that night was sick. I wanted to see you again, I swear man, I just,” John’s eyes looked around the clearing. If there was something wrong in his tone, something hidden in his expression, Alex wilfully ignored it. “Broken phone, y’know?” 

_No,_ Alex thought, _I do not know. You couldn’t have facebooked me? Used Lafayette’s phone? Dropped by the office? Sent a fucking barber quartet band? A carrier pigeon? A barber quartet band consisting of carrier pigeons?_

“Yeah,” Alex managed to filter his thoughts for once. “But you’re here now, right? That’s what matters. And didn’t you use to play baseball?” John nodded. “Brilliant. You better prove your skills because _these_ bad boys,” Alex gestured to the bag of grapes in his left hand, “And _that_ annoying face,” He then pointed at Jefferson, who was talking to an unimpressed Angelica and tousling his hair so often Alex hoped he’d rip it off his scalp, “Have a very romantic date coming up on the Pain Express Train. Toot toot, motherfucker.” 

“All aboard to Fuck-You-Ville.” Alex laughed, the pain of his rejection a distant memory as he grinned at John.

The staff, and a few accompanying friends and family, situated themselves at the picnic table. Thankfully someone had brought extra chairs, copious amounts of snacks and cheap champagne; the latter of which they toasted to Washington. The campaign was closing in on them, with only two months left until the election. Alex pushed it out of his mind, almost giddy with happiness as he watched John unintentionally charm the Schuyler’s. When John landed his eighth consecutive grape in Jefferson’s hair, Alex laughed so hard he thought he might faint. When Alex tried to join in he missed abysmally, hitting Jefferson in the chest. 

“Ow! Hamilton, are you deranged? Stop throwing grapes at my left nipple and grow up.” Jefferson chided him, grimacing and rubbing the nipple in question as he resumed his conversation with Madison and Burr. 

John’s howling laughter made Alex grin, and his hand carelessly falling partially onto Alex’s thigh made him gasp. 

“Alright, listen up.” Angelica stood up, tapping her champagne glass and somehow managing to make the plastic fork appear regal. Washington and Lafayette snapped their heads away from one another, Alex guessing they were in deep discussion about the election’s effects on Laf’s business. Alex also guessed a bug must have flown in Laf’s eye, as the man was fluttering his lashes so furiously Alex worried they’d propel him into the air.

“It’s time for the Annual Nerf Gun Battle Extravaganza. Again, thank you for the stupid idea and somehow stupider name, Alex. You know the rules, five teams and three people in each. Team captains are myself, Washington, Charles Lee, Franklin and Laurens. Last person left alive wins, as does their entire team. You get shot, you die. Pick your teams!” 

“You _die_?” John whispered.

“You just have to lay dead until Angelica inevitably whoops everyone else’s ass and wins. She’s been the last one standing for three years in a row, she’s ruthless.” 

“Well, looks like we’re gonna break her winning streak.” John eyes danced with mischief as he winked at Alex, grabbing him by the arm and organizing his team.

John’s team, or as he called them ‘The Motha-Fuckin’ Champions’, consisted of himself, Alex and John Jays - a man Alex had scarcely spoken to. Washington, notoriously terrible at the game, had chosen Lafayette and, to Alex’s relief, John Adams. Alex loathed the man, and Adam’s returned his hatred, the two glaring at one another as they stood with their respective captains. The third and fourth team consisted of people Alex wouldn’t have been able to identify in a line up, except for Charles Lee. Alex couldn’t wait to shoot that douchebag in his idiotic mouth. The final team were the lethal Schuyler Sisters. Alex warned John that Peggy might be quiet and shy, but one year had shot him in the ass at point blank range, leaving a bruise in the shape of a dog for days. He also told John that he’d named the dog Sir Butt Bruise and had been genuinely upset when it faded, albeit by accident. 

“Game starts in ten seconds! Go!” Angelica yelled, pressing an air horn she had seemingly materialised out of nowhere and scaring the shit out of Alex. She grabbed Eliza, who grabbed Peggy, and linked together the three of them set off running at an alarmingly high speed. 

John yanked Alex from his seat, running in the opposite direction from the Schuyler’s and into the thick forest of trees behind the picnic table. John Jay lumbered alongside them, coughing and panting heavily. He collapsed onto the ground as they stopped to discuss tactics. John suggested they go for stealth, staying hidden and shooting from afar, like ninjas. 

“Shoot me.” Jay panted, breaking the pair out of their conversation.

“What?” John and Alex’s incredulity was synchronized. 

“I hate this game. Angelica forces me to play. But I can’t shoot myself. Angelica said so.” He took Alex’s hand, pressing the gun against his heart. Alex would laugh at his histrionics if the man’s eyes didn’t plead into his own. 

“End my misery. Shoot me. Please, for the love of god.” Alex looked over at John, who solemnly nodded his head like a farmer ordering an injured animal to be put out of its suffering.

The click of the plastic trigger, then a soft thud as the foam bullet collided with his body. Jay slumped backwards, his body like a rag-dolls and face completely lifeless. 

Abruptly, he coughed, taking out his phone and scrolling through Instagram.

“C’mon, Alexander. We’ve got a war to win.” Together, the pair crept through the outskirts of the trees. The picnic table was deserted, the grassy meadow contained only fallen bodies. Their death was convincing if not for the occasional bursts of laughter coming from the corpses. Lee was nowhere in sight. 

_The coward probably ran for it and left his men behind,_ Alex’s thoughts were dripped with bitterness.

“Hide!” John pulled Alex behind a bush, thorns sticking into them. Alex could hear leaves crunching and twigs snapping, the unmistakable sound of someone approaching. 

“Oui, George, but have you ever thought the voters would not mind?” John’s devious smile widened. _Ambush them,_ he mouthed to Alex. As John looked away and waited for the unsuspecting victims to come into view, Alex’s eyes stayed on his mouth. 

_Shit. It’s been weeks and I still want to kiss him._

“DEATH TO TRAITORS!” John screamed, popping up from behind the bush and firing at random. Alex followed his example, shooting his boss in the stomach as John shot Lafayette in the neck, stomach and hair. He dramatically dropped to the ground, wailing in French about being too young and beautiful to die. 

“Sorry, sir.” Alex’s shit eating smile counteracted his words.

“Such is life, Hamilton.” Washington sat cross legged on the uneven ground besides Lafayette’s body, which was now writhing in faux agony and demanding Washington take care of his children in the wake of his ruthless murder.

“You don’t have children, Gilbert.” 

“How dare say that about George Junior and Miss Mayonnaise.”

Alex and John left them behind, chatting as they hunted for their next victims, They passed more of the ‘dead’ - the entire third and fourth team who appeared to be playing Cards Against Humanity from beyond the grave.

“All of you in one go?” John wondered.

One of the girls glared at them, whispering _“Angelica did this.”_ Before exclaiming, “Oh, come on, Harry Potter Erotica totally wins that round!” 

Alex did the math in his head. It was him, John, the Schuyler’s, Charles Lee, Jefferson, Madison and John Adams left.

“Hamilton, unless a side effect of stupidity is blindness, you can kindly stop stepping on my fucking wrist, you creole bastard.” John Adams taunted from where he laid, partially concealed by flora. 

“You’re supposed to be dead, and not just on the inside.” Alex hissed in response. 

“Alexander!” John grabbed his arm, not looking at him. Alex followed the direction of his horrified gaze. Slumped against a tree, mouths slack and eyes convincingly devoid, laid the lifeless bodies of Eliza and Peggy.

“Who did this to you?” Alex whispered, stepping closer to them.

“IDIOT!” Alex leaped back as Jefferson jumped out of the tree, gun pointed directly at Alex. Alex backed away slowly, he and John carefully moving out from the forest and into the clearing, their eyes never leaving Jefferson. 

“Shoot him and you die too.” John trained his gun on Jefferson, Alex doing the same.

“You’re outnumbered, moron.” Alex spat.

“Oh hoh, really? Ma-di-son!” Jefferson sung out his name, and sure enough James appeared sheepishly out of the fringes of the forest. He pointed his gun at John, who in turn trained his gun on Madison, the four of them facing off against one another in the middle of the field. 

“So now we’re even? Honestly, Jefferson, you can’t even get being evil right. You’re not pretty enough to be this stupid.” Alex tutted, enjoying the snarl that grew on Jefferson’s face. 

“At least I’m not employed to be a _suck up_. Pardon me, I forgot your other official duty of making everyone else look better.”

“You cum-guzzling thunder fuck. Your ass must get jealous of all the shit that comes out of your mouth, huh?”

“So immature, Hamilton.”

John and Madison were watching the exchange of insults like a tennis match, heads following as words bounced off one another. 

“You’re an arrogant prick, Jefferson. Ever heard of not being a terrible person?”

“Oh, I’ll make sure to tell it to my conscience the next time I see it.” 

“Were you dropped on your head as a baby straight into hell – “

“At least I’m not here because of pity privileges given to immigrants.”

Alex’s retort froze on his lips. His anger stunned him into shock, Jefferson watching him smugly. His smirk changed into a shocked expression of pain as a foam bullet hit him directly on his left nipple. Alex quickly jumped into action, firing at Madison and hitting him in the stomach before he could even blink. 

“Let's go, Alexander.” John nudged him, eyes still glowering at Jefferson. In the midst of his anger Alex had all but forgotten John’s presence. He marveled at John's similiar fury, commending his spectacular nipple-aim as they walked across the clearing.

“AHA!” Alex quickly turned to face the voice. Charles Lee stood behind the disgruntled deceased, gun pointed at Alex.

“You absolute _coward!_ ” 

Lee pulled the trigger. As his bullet flew towards Alex, Charles clutched his back, screaming in pain as he fell to the grassy terrain. Alex instinctively turned, curling in on himself. Suddenly, he felt something wrap its arms around his stomach, their body curled over his own. Then it was gone, sliding off him into a heap on the ground. 

“John!” Alex yelled, kneeling beside him, “You took a bullet for me.” 

John’s facade of lifelessness cracked as he smiled at Alexander. 

“A nerf bullet.” It wasn’t until John spoke that Alex realized how close they were, his breath on Alex’s lips. A strand of Alex’s hair fell from his bun and tickled John’s cheek. They stared at one another. John’s eyes flickered to Alex’s lips, and Alex instinctively wet them with his tongue. 

John surged up, clashing his lips against Alex’s. Alex melted into it, hands tangling in John’s curly hair as John’s hands found the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Alex felt the axis of his world stop spinning, the stars shone within him, threatening spontaneous combustion.

John deepened the kiss, tasting like champagne and dark chocolate. They paused, Alex pulling away to gulp in air, only just realizing he hadn’t been breathing. The two grinned stupidly at one another. 

Someone loudly cleared their throat, and Alex turned his head to follow the sound. Behind Jefferson and Madison stood Angelica, one foot on Charles Lee’s body and one hand pointing her gun firmly at Alexander.

“Sorry to ruin the moment, boys. But I’m not letting you win.” She grinned.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Angelica,” Alex began, “For I have won something far greater than this frivolous game, I am victorious in _OW! FOR FUCKS SAKE! SWEET JESUS ON A TRICYCLE THAT HURT._ ”

Alex clutched his chest, nursing where the bullet had hit him. He dramatically fell next to John, one hand against his forehead and the other against his heart, the same pose he had struck only a few weeks ago. 

“I’m dying, John.” He fake coughed, wheezing as though taking his last breaths. John watched him fondly, the two laying on their backs in the grass, heads turned to face one another.

“Upon reunion in the afterlife, would you perhaps go on a date with me?” Alex fake sputtered again, just to get his point across. 

“Perhaps? Alexander, I’d love to.” 

Alex grinned, closing the distance between their lips and kissing John sweetly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> criticism/comments make me feel all warm and fuzzy + inspired to write!!
> 
> tbh if u leave one i'll astral project into ur room and hug u


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